


Lucky Shot

by BubblegumCannibal



Series: Commissions and Gifts [12]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Apex Legends, Bloodhound Headcanons (Apex Legends), Canon/OC - Freeform, OC is a Apex Legend, Other, Slow Burn, bloodhound's salt knows no bounds, collection, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblegumCannibal/pseuds/BubblegumCannibal
Summary: New players come and go, but only some are rare enough to grace the top of the legend mountain with the best of the best. Now the Predators have a new face among the ranks and Bloodhound has found light fancy towards this newcomer.
Relationships: Bloodhound (Apex Legends)/Original Character(s), Bloodhound (Apex Legends)/Original Female Character(s), Bloodhound (Apex Legends)/Other(s)
Series: Commissions and Gifts [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/650837
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Lucky Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irredivivous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irredivivous/gifts).



> Please note that this is a commission and the situation of the work is specific to the commissioners wants and needs. This is in no specific order nor will things connect in a linear fashion. Similar to how [Gardens // WF](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16107116) is. (same commissioner tbh lol) but please enjoy.

She was more competent that I had once assumed. New faces do not last as long as she has, they’re usually picked off at the beginning as the ascent to the top of the mountain begins. I watch from atop my perch, my scope studying the movements her and the exuberant team paired at her side... yet, it seems they barely mesh. One down. Two. Quickly four and five—teams drop like weak ducklings trying to learn how to fly.

The new one knows the song of slatra and dares to sing it well. She seems to sing it louder than those whom have stained their hands with the ichor of hundreds, and yet no passing rumor has come where she has done the same. Gerir þú þetta vegna íþrótta, vinur minn? Does the sight of blood and death not deter your hand? Does it intrigue you?

_Ah._

I shall not deny one thing: it… is fascinating to watch.

I hear stories of how professionals step into our ring to prove they are better than us but only make it to the first plateau. Hitmen. Snipers. Soldiers. Serial killers… Everyone and anyone has tried and failed. They could never understand the mantra of slatra. The many who follow the hundreds of unlucky souls into the battlefield fall in waves, collapsing over one another as they trample their way to the top of the mountain. Yet only few ever make it to the remaining circle crawling with predators ready to send them to an early grave or bittersweet respawn tank. And for that thought the passing thought rings in my head of how lucky that last shot was that brought her to the top.

With interest, I hope I can pass my word to her: you would have never downed me if I had seen you. It was lucky. It shall not happen again. However, instead of a threat, I demanded a rematch. For what reason? Curiosity. It was the same when I saw the sudden change in miklimunr, Witt, and the same for that gentle bear. Kind on the outside, but another, far dangerous other on the out. Could it be for show? I question it, but alas I am greeted with no answer. My first games were just the same. I was still new to these evolved weapons, but my survival and the adrenaline that come with bring honor and enthrallment.

**_But you would have never downed me if I had seen you._ **

A crack and I felt a shock through my body. Surprised, I see no tracks and hear no steps… but she caught me… Like an eagle snatching a hare from the high grass. I thought this brought the end. Her shot had made her vinna, but I was pulled back to my feet and pushed into a corner to heel and scout—like every match. And still _nothing._ Where were you?

It bothers me.

Not a scent, not a sound, not a sound in the vindur—you were a ghost and I missed you that time…

It bothered me when I saw you with that kraber strapped to your back and a mere handgun in your hand. It almost angered me when you pressed it against my temple… Yet I was quelled, when I saw you, covered in the gore of your fallen and the dirt and grit from tumbling through the littered fields. Felagai fighter, you had bested me with an unseen flicker in the distance.

Nevertheless, the simple request caught me, “Rematch?”

And bitter, I responded, “Rematch.”

I missed you that time, já, but I did **not** miss you this time.

A team must flow an easy as a clear river. Your communication must be sound and the noise of your surroundings must be of utmost importance. Those new to our little world never think about this. The idea to just run and gun your way into another fight without ever thinking about what could be around the next corner. But for her? Down one, hopping through the fields with gritted teeth, shield tank in hand, rushing to the next respawn, she never looked up.

She never saw the champion of the slatra high in their perch. She and they—never enemies, but instead holding a rivalry friendly. Never will she be my enemy when her hands know the body of a gun the way a hunter knows their fields.

You inhale. You hold. And no matter how experienced your hands are, the crack of a gun still rattles your core…

I hate it. It’s a feeling I’ll never get over, alas I push on with a switch of weapons, something a little more versatile than the one shot of a tired and pre-used kraber. The team I sat with descends with excitement, weapons in hand, hoping the gusts of wind send them swiftly down the zipline safely—the champion of slatra comes to vinna.

This time they shall not falter. Not again.

As the gunfire erupts and the communication dissolves from soft calls to frustration, the peak has come and the heat of the ring follows closely. One by one, the two dance around the only cover they hold and the ring swallows the fallen. Only she and they remain—and only she and I will see the end of this battle.

But…

It comes as a shock when weapons run empty. One could swing their weapon and hope it hits or… _swing._ The woman—I barely remember the name she gave announcers—has the strikes of warriors. It shakes me, but it does not defeat the only weapon I keep on hand. A fist, unfortunately, does not defeat that of a blade already unsheathed.

And with it tipped at her chin, I give her a nod, “Rematch?”

“Rematch.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gerir þú þetta vegna íþrótta, vinur minn? - Do you do this for sport, my friend?


End file.
